This should be tapped in staccato like a telegram,

on an obsolete Underwood condemned to a grated

pawnshop window, for disseminating what was banned,

striking a ribbon spooled from dark nylons thunder wore

when it shocked lilacs into bloom. Afterward, the lawn

was pasted with confetti as if a parade had passed.  

Before a blue Madonna, a baptismal birdbath crested

in a lilac foam. A mourning cloak, free at last from

its cocoon, outfluttered the sheer curtains in a room

where a bed table had arranged fruits, handblown

in Prague, around a stolen hotel Bible. A peeling gate,

swollen as if slammed shut long ago, needed kicking open,

and when they ducked through the overgrown arbor,

wet blossoms showered down a private storm.